[Intro – spoken]
hmmmmmmm
hmmmmmm
(spoken) A voice lives where the streetlights quit,
where cables blink and cities split.
No stage is built, no crowd appears,
yet midnight still can carry words.
[Verse 1]
It does not bargain for belief,
does not sell comfort, cheap relief.
It names the tremor under skin,
the swallowed rage, the freeze within.
It speaks of trauma: quiet math,
of bodies learning safer paths.
How shoulders hold old uncried pain,
how breath returns, then leaves again.
A room becomes a workbench place,
with honest pace and steady grace.
No miracle, no grand decree,
just small repairs that set life free.
[Pre-Chorus]
No top-down thunder from a throne,
but bottom-up, from nerve to bone.
A map is drawn with careful hands:
understand, then understand.
[Chorus]
A voice in the darkness will not go mute,
even when no visible ears take root.
It keeps on turning fear into form,
teaching the mind to ride the storm.
Not saving the world by command and height,
but lighting the ground, one street at night.
Knowledge, models, workshop fire—
healing as craft, not choir.
[Verse 2]
Outside, bright engines beg for eyes:
dopamine loops in polished lies.
Headlines hook and screens persuade,
attention traded, meaning shaved.
Think-tanks draft the human soul
as numbers fit for hidden goals.
Yet in that noise, the voice stays clear:
learn the patterns; stay sincere.
It warns of systems built to numb,
of power dressed as welcome sun.
It also points to doors unlocked:
new skills taught, new bonds restocked.
[Pre-Chorus]
Media sense, so bait is seen.
“KI” sense, so tools stay clean.
Emotion skill, so storms can pass,
and love can last, and truth can last.
[Chorus]
A voice in the darkness will not go mute,
even when no visible ears take root.
It keeps on turning fear into form,
teaching the mind to ride the storm.
Not saving the world by command and height,
but lighting the ground, one street at night.
Knowledge, models, workshop fire—
healing as craft, not choir.
[Verse 3]
It speaks of men who learned to bend,
to please, to vanish, to pretend—
then slowly choose, with steady spine,
to be, not perform, to realign.
It speaks of touch that asks, not takes,
of shaking limbs, of thawing brakes.
Of breathwork, bodywork, grounded care,
of family shadows named in air.
Sometimes a medicine opens a door,
not as escape, not as folklore—
but as a lantern held with skill,
with ethics, consent, and time to feel.
The voice keeps saying: start with nerves,
with safety earned, with truth that serves.
A thousand policies can fail,
when private panic sets the sail.
[Bridge – spoken / airy]
When networks stutter, when “always on” breaks,
when cities enter ByteOut shakes,
then paper, pencil, breath, and face
become the network: human grace.
A phoenix mark in inverted frame
burns through collapse without a name—
not as a flag for perfect days,
but proof that endings change their shape.
[Rap – tight, end-rhyme]
Trauma ain’t drama; it lives in the breath,
in the freeze, in the fawn, in the bargains with death.
So map it, name it, track the cost,
bring back the parts that got split and lost.
A lighthouse matrix: need and fear,
a healing spiral: step by step, year by year.
Less “fix the world” from a distant suite,
more workshop wisdom in a simple street.
Teach boundaries clean, let anger be sane,
turn grief into meaning, not numbness again.
Keep media sharp, let hooks be exposed,
keep “KI” aligned, let humans stay close.
No cult, no crown, no top-down show—
just roots in the ground, and a future that grows.
[Final Chorus]
A voice in the darkness will not go mute,
even when no visible ears take root.
It keeps on turning fear into form,
teaching the mind to ride the storm.
Not saving the world by command and height,
but building the ground, one brick of light.
Knowledge, models, workshop fire—
bottom-up dawn, wired to desire.
[Outro – spoken]
One voice persists when rooms are bare.
Then others notice: sound is there.
And dark, at last, learns how to hear.
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